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are not the residences of “ glory and generous shame." But that poerry and virtue go always together is an opinion so pleasing, that I can forgive bim who resolves to think it true.
The third stanza sounds big with “ Delphi,” and « Egean,” and “ Ilissus,” and “ Meander,” and “hal. lowed fountains," and “ solemn sound ;” but in all Gray's odes there is a kind of cumbrous splendour which we wish away. His position is at last false : in the time of Dante and Petrarch, from whom we derive our first school of poetry, Italy was over-run by“ tyrant power;" and “ coward vice ;" nor was our state much better when we first borrowed the Italian arts.
Of the third ternary, the first gives a mythological birth of Shakspeare. What is said of that mighty ge. nius is true ; but it is not said happily : the real effects of this poetical power are put out of sight by the pomp of machinery. Where truth is sufficient to fill the mind, fiction is worse than useless; the counterfeit debases the genuine.
His account of Milton's blindness, if we suppose it caused by study in the formation of his poem, a supposition surely allowable, is poetically true, and happily imagined. But the car of Dryden, with his two cour. sers, has nothing in it peculiar; it is a car in which any other rider may be placed.
The Bard appears, at the first view, to be, as Al. garotti and others have remarked, an imitation of the prophecy of Nereus. Algarotti thinks it superior to its original; and, if preference depends only on the ima. gery and imagination of the two poems, his judgment is right. There is in The Bard more force, more thought, and more variety. But to copy is less than to invent, and the copy has been unhappily produced at a wrong time. The fiction of Horace was 10 the Romans credi
ble ; but its revival disgusts us with apparent and unconquerable falsehood. Incredulus odi.
To select a singular event, and swell it to a giant's bulk by fabulous appendages of spectres and predictions, has little difficulty; for he that forsakes the probable may always find the marvellous. And it has little use; we are affected only as we believe ; we are improved only as we find something to be imitated or declined. I do not see that The Bard promotes any truth, moral or political.
His stanzas are too long, especially his epodes; the ode is finished before the ear had learned its measures, and consequently before it can receive pleasure from their consonance and recurrence.
Of the first stanza the abrupt beginning has been ce. lebrated ; but technical beauties can give praise only to the inventor. It is in the power of any man to rush abruptly upon his subject, that has read the ballad of Johnny Armstrong,
Is there ever a man in all Scotland
The initial resemblances, or illiterations, “ruin, ruthless, helm or hauberk,” are below the grandeur of a poem that endeavours at sublimity.
In the second stanza the Bard is well described; but in the third we have the puerilities of obsolete mythology. When we are told that “ Cadwallo hush'd the stormy main," and that “ Modred made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topp'd head," attention recoils from the repetition of a tale that, even when it was first heard, was heard with scorn.
The weaving of the winding sheet he borrowed, as he owns, from the northern bards: but their texture, however was very properly the work of female powers, as the act of spinning the thread of life is another
mythology. Theft is always dangerous ; Gray has made 'Weavers of slaughtered bards by a fiction outrageous and incongruous. They are then called upon to “ Weave the warp, and weave the woof," perhaps with no great propriety; for it is by crossing the woof with the warp that men weave the web or piece; and the first line was dearly bought by the admission of its wretched correspondent, «Give ample room and verge enough."* He has, however, no other line as bad.
The third stanza of the second ternary is commended, I think, beyond its merit. The personification is indistinct. Thirst and Hunger are not alike ; and their features, to make the imagery perfect, should have been discriminated. We are told, in the same stanza, how “ towers are fed.” But I will no longer look for particular faults; yet let it be observed that the ode might have been concluded with an action of better example, but suicide is always to be had, without expense of thought.
These odes are marked by glittering accumulations of ungraceful ornaments; they strike, rather than please ; the images are magnified by affectation; the language is laboured into harshness. The mind of the writer seems to work with unnatural violence. 66 Double, double, toil and trouble." He has a kind of strutting dignity, and is tall by walking on tiptoe. His art and his struggle are too visible, and there is too little appearance of ease and nature.t
* “ I have a soul, that like an ample shield
+ Lord Oxford used to assert, that Gray never wrote any thing easily, but things of humour ;” and added, that humuur was his natural and original turn. c.
To say that he has no beauties, would be unjust; a man like him, of great learning and great industry, could not but produce something valuable. When he pleases least, it can only be said that a good design was ill directed
His translations of northern and Welsh poetry de. serve praise : the imagery is preserved, perhaps often improved; but the language is unlike the language of other poets.
In the character of his elegy I rejoice to concur with the common reader; for by the common sense of readers, uncorrupted with literary prejudices, after all the refinements of subtilty and the dogmatism of learning, must be finally decided all claim to poetical honours. The Church-yard abounds with images which find a mirror in every mind, and with sentiments to which every bosom returns an echo. The four stanzas, beginning “ Yet even these bones” are to me original : I have never seen the notions in any other place ; yet he that reads them here persuades himself that he has always felt them, Had Gray written often thus, it had been vain to blame, and useless to praise him.
GEORGE LYTTELTON, the son of sir Thomas Lyttelton, of Hagley in Worcestershire, was born in 1709. He was educated at Eton, where he was so much distinguished, that his exercises were recommended as models to his schoolfellows.
From Eton he went to Christ-church, where he retained the same reputation of superiority, and displayed his abilities to the public in a poem on Blenheim.
He was a very early writer, both in verse and prose, His Progress of Love, and his “ Persian Letters,” were both written when he was very young; and indeed the character of a young man is very visible in both. The verses cant of shepherds and focks, and crooks dressed with flowers; and the letters have something of that indistinct and headstrong ardour for liberty which a man of genius always catches when he enters the world and always suffers to cool as he
forward. He staid not long in Oxford; for in 1728 he began his travels, and saw France and Italy. When he returned, he obtained a seat in parliament, and soon distinguished himself among the most eager opponents of sir Robert Walpole, though his father, who was commissioner of the admiralty, always voted with the court.